Author: William W. Johnstone
Category: Western
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“I don’t want nothin’ more yet,” Lanagan said. “I got me some business to take care of, then I’ll more ’n likely be back.”
“Very good, sir,” the bartender said, taking both the glass and the bottle from the bar.
The bartender watched Lanagan push through the batwing doors. “You don’t have to hurry back,” he said, too quietly for anyone else to hear.
The bank was only one block away from the Blanket and Saddle Saloon, and as soon as Lanagan stepped into the bank, he saw Metzger talking to the bank teller. Metzger looked toward him, but gave no sign of recognition.
“Yes, sir, can I help you?” Metzger asked as he came to him.
“I’m thinkin’ ’bout puttin’ some money in the bank here, ’n I want to talk to someone about it,” Lanagan said, using the opening Metzger had suggested in the letter.”
“Well, step into my office and we’ll discuss it,” Metzger said.
Fifteen minutes later, the two men came back out of the office. “Mr. Morley, I do hope you see fit to use our bank for your business,” Metzger said.
“Well, I’ll sure give it some thinkin’ on,” Lanagan replied. “I’ll let you know.”
Metzger followed his cousin to the door, then started back toward his office.
“Mr. Metzger, you don’t really expect that man to deposit any money with us, do you?” the teller asked.
“I don’t know. Why do you ask, Mr. Dunaway? Do you know him?” There was some disquiet in Metzger’s question, though Dunaway didn’t pick up on it.
“No, sir, I’ve never seen him before in my life. But he doesn’t seem to me like a potential customer.”
Metzger’s chuckle was one of relief. “You may be right, Sid, but I can’t turn someone away just based on his looks now, can I?”
Dunaway chuckled. “No, sir, I don’t suppose you can.”
Their conversation was interrupted by a woman customer who came into the bank then.
“Mrs. Sidwell,” Dunaway said. “How good to see you this morning.”
Metzger returned to his office, then sat at his desk and thought of the agreement he and Lanagan had made. Metzger would be getting ten percent of the money, which would come to ten thousand dollars.
He would go to Paris.
CHAPTER TEN
Ernest Dean Fawcett had just stepped into the saloon less than a minute before Lanagan returned from his business with the bank. The visitor from Pella was standing at the bar when Lanagan came back to the saloon. Shocked to see him, Fawcett studied Lanagan in the mirror, because he didn’t want to look directly at him. The last time Fawcett had seen him, he had been looking down the barrel of a gun as Lanagan was leaving the Bank of Pella amidst a shower of bullets.
Fawcett tossed down his drink.
“Another?” the bartender asked.
“No, I gotta go,” Fawcett said. He turned his head as he passed Lanagan. He didn’t think Lanagan would recognize him. After all, the last time he had seen him, Lanagan had been rather busy.
Fawcett hurried down to the sheriff’s office.
* * *
Sheriff Andrew Peabody was sitting at the desk in his office when Fawcett came in. Because Fawcett wasn’t a resident of the town, Sheriff Peabody didn’t recognize him. There was a look on the man’s face that could only be described as anxious.
“Yes, sir?” the sheriff said, by way of greeting.
“Sheriff, my name is Fawcett. Ernest Dean Fawcett.”
“What can I do for you, Mr. Fawcett?”
“I’m down here from Pella, I come down to buy me a team o’ mules from R. D. Clayton.”
“Yes, sir, I can understand that. R.D. has the best mules in the state,” Sheriff Peabody said. “But I know Mr. Clayton to be an honest man. Are you having some problem with R.D.?”
“No, no, I ain’t even talked to him yet. This here is somethin’ else. You know how it is that you law fellas is always a-tellin’ us to keep our eyes open all the time, ’n to tell you if we see somethin’ that ain’t right, or somethin’ that maybe you should know?”
“Yes, I’m quite aware of that, Mr. Fawcett. Do you have some information I should know?”
“Yes sir, I do. There’s a feller over in the Blanket and Saddle Saloon that maybe you should know about.”
“Who would that be?”
“His name is Clete Lanagan. ’N I know he’s a wanted man ’cause what he done is, he robbed the bank up in Pella. You have heard about that, haven’t you?”
“Yes, indeed, I have heard about it. But how do you know this man in the saloon is Clete Lanagan?”
“’Cause the last time I seen ’im, me ’n him was a-shootin’ at one another. That’s ’cause he come runnin’ out of the bank with a gun in one hand, ’n the money bag in the other. I commenced a-shootin’ at ’em, just like most ever ’one else in Pella. We kilt two of ’m, but Lanagan ’n one other man got away. I don’t have no idee where that other man is, on account of I didn’t see him, but I can tell you right now for sure ’n certain that Lanagan is here in your town, ’n you’re the sheriff.”
“You are quite right about that, Mr. Fawcett, I am the sheriff,” Sheriff Peabody said, standing up, and loosening his pistol in his holster.
“There’s a reward out for Lanagan, ain’t there?”
“I believe there is. One thousand and five hundred dollars for robbery and murder,” Sheriff Peabody replied.
“’N I’ll get the reward for tellin’ you about it, won’t I? What I mean is, I don’t have to actual go capture ’im myself or nothin’ like that to get the money, do I?” Fawcett asked.
Sheriff Peabody chuckled. “So you’re after the reward, are you? And here I thought you were a good citizen just doin’ your job.”
“Well, I am doin’ my job,” Fawcett insisted. “I told you about him, didn’t I?”
“I reckon you did at that.”
“You goin’ to bring ’im in by your own self?”
“It looks like I’m going to have to. My deputy is out delivering a prisoner to the jail over in Antelope.”
“Yeah, well, you better watch out, they say Lanagan is a mean ’un.”
“So I hear. But, I can deputize you if you’d like to come help me,” Sheriff Peabody said.
“What? Uh, no, I ain’t none prepared for nothin’ like that. What I mean is, well, it’s your job, ain’t it?”
Sheriff Peabody sighed. “Yes, it’s my job. You can wait here if you like. When I get back I’ll validate your claim that you’re the one who pointed him out to me. That way, you can put in for the reward that’s being offered.”
“Yeah, all right, I’ll stay here,” Fawcett said, obviously relieved that he would not have to take part in confronting the known outlaw.
Fawcett watched the sheriff leave, thinking about the reward money. It would more than pay for the mules he had come over here to buy. He smiled. This was goin’ to turn into a pretty profitable trip.
* * *
Lanagan had spent a quarter for a glass of whiskey from the “good” bottle, and though it was a little better, he couldn’t tell that it was any better than the fifteen-cent whiskey had been.
“I just heard me some o’ the damndest news ever,” one of the other drinkers in the bar said.
“What’s that?”
“You know the feller Sheriff Peabody’s got ’n the jail here, the one that broke out the winder over at the Brown Dirt Cowboy?”
“Yeah, what about ’im?”
“Turns out his real name is Seth McCoy, ’n they was fixin’ to hang ’im over in Antelope, afore he escaped.”
“So, what’s Sheriff Peabody goin’ to do with ’im?”
“I don’ know, I guess he’ll hang on to ’im, ’til they send somebody over to fetch him.”
“Hell, he’s already gone, Deputy Conyers took ’im back to Antelope this mornin’.”
“That ain’t hardly likely. I mean, Conyers ain’t hardly wet behind his ears yet. Could you see
Peabody trustin’ him to take a prisoner like Seth McCoy?”
The others laughed. “More ’n likely, what you seen Conyers takin’ was some drunk somewhere. No, sir, my bet is that Seth McCoy is still a-sittin’ in our jail.”
“Wouldn’t it be somethin’ if they was to hang ’im here? It’s been a while since I seen me a hangin’.”
“I ain’t ever seen one, ’n I don’t want to see one.”
Lanagan listened to the conversation with interest. He and Seth McCoy had done a few jobs together. If he was going to steal this hundred thousand dollars Drury had told him about, he was going to have to start rounding up some good men, and Seth McCoy would be one he would like to have.
* * *
Sheriff Peabody had never seen Clete Lanagan before, but he did have a description of him. Lanagan had been a wanted man long before the bank robbery up in Pella. He stepped into the Blanket and Saddle Saloon, and after a quick glance around, saw someone standing at the bar. The man was tall and husky, with pale gray eyes and, most noticeably, a very prominent scar on his left cheek that disfigured both his eye and the corner of his mouth. This fit the description he had of the wanted man, Clete Lanagan.
The irony was that though Sheriff Peabody was the one who would have to confront Lanagan and actually make the arrest, the reward money would be paid to Fawcett. That was because Peabody, being an officer of the law, would not be able to collect a reward for bringing a fugitive in.
That didn’t really bother him; he wasn’t after the reward. Sheriff Peabody was an honest sheriff and a man as dedicated to his profession of being a lawman, as he had been when, as a sergeant major in Conyers’ legion, he had been cited for bravery at the Battle of Seven Pines. Peabody wanted Lanagan simply because it was his job to bring him in.
“Mr. Lanagan?” Sheriff Peabody called from the opposite end of the bar.
Lanagan did not react to the call.
“You, standing there at the bar. Your name is Clete Lanagan, isn’t it?”
The other drinkers moved quickly away from the bar, and even the bartender ducked down out of sight.
Lanagan had still not moved, which was evidence enough that he was the man Sheriff Peabody thought he was.
“You talkin’ to me?” the solitary figure at the bar asked in a low, guttural voice.
“I am, sir. I am Sheriff Andrew Peabody, and I am putting you under arrest for bank robbery and murder. Will you come peaceably? Or, do you intend to give me trouble?”
Lanagan saw something in the mirror, just before he turned to face Sheriff Peabody. Peabody was holding a gun, pointing it at the man he had just placed under arrest.
“Well now, Sheriff, I ain’t never done nothin’ peaceable in my whole life,” Lanagan replied with what could best be described as a mordant laugh. “You plannin’ on shootin’ me, are you?”
“I would rather not shoot you, Lanagan, I would rather give you the opportunity to stand trial. But as you can see, I am holding a gun on you and I must warn you that I am perfectly prepared to shoot you if it should come to that. I hope that it does not.”
Lanagan let his hand hang just over the handle of his pistol.
“Well, it’s goin’ to come to that,” Lanagan said with a confident smirk.
“Don’t be a fool, Lanagan. I’ve got the drop on you, and I told you, I will shoot if I have . . .”
The sheriff’s admonition was interrupted in mid-sentence by a gunshot, and Peabody went down with a bullet in his upper chest.
“Did that fool really plan on arrestin’ you?” a thin-faced, beady-eyed man asked, as he stood on the bottom step of the stairs, holding a smoking pistol in his hand.
“Damn, Claymore, I seen you in the mirror just a standin’ there. You sure took your own sweet time in shootin’ ’im,” Lanagan complained. “You almost waited too long.”
Candy Good had started down the stairs with Claymore, but now, having witnessed the unexpected shooting, she stood behind him with a look of horror on her face.
“You might say I was . . . occupied,” Claymore replied with a ribald smile, jerking his thumb back toward the girl. He looked back toward the sheriff’s body which was lying still, on the floor. “Did I kill ’im?”
Lanagan stepped over to look down at the man Claymore had just shot. “No, you didn’t kill ’im.”
“Too bad. Maybe I had better finish him off,” Claymore replied, heading toward the supine form.
Though Sheriff Peabody was flat on his back, he was conscious, and at the moment, staring up at the man, aware that he was about to breathe his last.
Claymore pulled the hammer back.
“No, wait!” Lanagan said, holding up his hand.
“Don’t kill ’im.”
“Why not?”
“It might be more useful for us to keep ’im alive,” Lanagan said.
“How would that be?”
“If he ain’t dead they’ll be more worryied about takin’ care of him than they will be about comin’ after us.”
“All right,” Claymore replied, lowering his pistol. “I don’t know why, but if you say so, I’ll let ’im live.”
Except for the conversation between the two men, there was absolute silence in the saloon as everyone stared at them.
“Anybody here got ’ny plans to do somethin’ ’bout what just happened?” Lanagan asked. Now he, like Claymore, was holding a pistol in his hand.
The bartender looked out over the room at all the remaining customers. Nobody said a word.
“We have no such plans,” the bartender said.
“That’s smart of you. It’s a good way to stay alive,” Lanagan said. “By the way, that bottle of the quarter whiskey? Give it to me.”
“Sure thing, Mr. Lanagan,” the bartender said, turning to get the bottle off the shelf behind him. “There won’t be no charge.” He held the bottle out across the bar.
“No charge,” Lanagan said with a little laugh. “Well now, barkeep, that’s a good one. It really is.”
With Lanagan and Claymore holding pistols in their hands, and Lanagan clasping the bottle of whisky in his other hand, the two men pushed through the doors and hurried out front.
“Before we leave town we’ve got to take care of a little business,” Lanagan said as he and Claymore hurried out of the saloon.
“What kind of business?”
“I just learned that they’re holdin’ Seth McCoy in jail here. He’s a good man, ’n we’re goin’ to need some more men for what I got in mind now.”
“We’re goin’ to break him out?”
“Yeah, who’s goin’ to stop us? The sheriff?” Lanagan asked with a little laugh.
“All right, if you say so. But considerin’ I just shot the sheriff, I don’t think it would be a good idea for us to hang around here much longer.”
“The sheriff ain’t in no condition to be doin’ nothin’ about it, ’n like I told you, as long as he’s still alive, why ever’ one will be worryin’ so about him, that they won’t be payin’ no attention to us. ’N we’re goin’ to need more men, a lot more men, to do this job I’m plannin’.”
“What job?”
“One that’ll make us a lot of money. I’ll tell you later, Right now, let’s get McCoy ’n get out of here.”
With their guns still in hand, the two men pushed the door open and rushed into the sheriff’s office. The only person there was Ernest Dean Fawcett, who was waiting for the return of the sheriff so he could collect the reward.
“What? What are you doing here?” Fawcett asked, the tone of his voice betraying his fear.
“You the jailer?” Lanagan asked.
“What? No.”
“Then, what the hell are you doing here?”
“I . . . I’m just waiting to see the sheriff.”
“Yeah? Well, I got a feelin’ he ain’t goin’ to be around for a while,” Lanagan said with an evil laugh. “Keep this here feller covered, Claymore, while I go after McCoy.”
Lan
agan hurried into the back of the jail, but was surprised to see that both cells were empty. He came back out front.
“Where’s McCoy?” he demanded.
“Who is McCoy?” Fawcett asid.
“The feller that was in jail. Where is he?”
“I . . . I don’t know. Like I say, I’m just waitin’ to see the sheriff. The office was empty when I got here.”
“You seen the deputy?”
“No, sir, I ain’t seen him.”
“They said the deputy was takin’ somebody somewhere, it must have been McCoy after all,” Lanagan said, his words little more than a growl. “Come on, let’s go.”
As Lanagan and Claymore started for the door, Fawcett, in a bold and foolish move, drew his pistol.
“You’re worth fifteen hunnert dollars, ’n you ain’t gettin’ away!” Fawcett shouted.
Lanagan and Claymore both whirled around, and both men fired. Fawcett was thrown back against the wall by the heavy impact of the two bullets. He slid down to the floor where he remained, held up in a sitting position by the wall against his back.
“Fifteen hunnert dollars,” he said, the words barely audible.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“They’re gone, they’ve rode out of town!” Someone called back into the saloon. He was standing at the batwing doors, and had seen Lanagan and Claymore go into the jail, then come back out no more than a minute later, and ride away.
“Quick, somebody get Doc Palmer,” the bartender said.
“What for? The sheriff is more ’n likely goin’ to die.”
“Well, he isn’t dead yet, so do what I said, and get the doctor!” the bartender repeated, this time putting it in the form of an order.
Barely five minutes later Dr. Palmer hurried in, carrying a little black bag. He knelt beside the sheriff. Bar towels had been used to stop the bleeding, and Dr. Palmer removed them, cleaned the wound with carbolic acid, then stuffed some gauze into the bullet hole. That done, he ordered a couple of the bystanders to get the sheriff down to his office.
“Someone ought to get the sheriff’s daughter,” one of the saloon patrons said.
* * *
Marjane Peabody was employed as a clerk in Miss Suzie’s Dress Emporium, and she was dealing with a customer at the moment.